


Rough Work of the World

by Innana



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe- Late Victorian, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innana/pseuds/Innana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is Enjolras' new valet.  Enjolras is different from any employer Grantaire has had before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

Grantaire knocked on the door to the servant’s entrance and shifted his satchel under his arm. A moment later the door was opened by a thin harassed-looking scullery maid with long dark hair pulled neatly under her cap.

She looked him up and down. “Are you the new valet?”

“Yes.” Grantaire put his bag down and offered his hand. “My name’s Gr—“

“Oh, thank God,” she interrupted, picking up his bag with one hand and pulling him in with the other. She was surprisingly strong for such a small girl. “Only Mr. Samson’s been having a fit.” She led him into a narrow hallway, talking in a lowered voice. “Tom, one of our footmen up and walked out last night and Liza has the flu and all. He was thinking about sending me upstairs. Can you imagine? He’d’ve rather died first.” She led him through a small, bright kitchen and into the servants' hall where the rest of the staff were sitting doing mending or polishing silver.

An older man, obviously the butler stood up when he saw him. “You are Mr. Grantaire I presume?” Grantaire nodded. “Well, I’ll take you up to His Lordship in a moment, but before I do, I assume Eponine told you that we’ve lost a footman and a maid.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I hate to presume, but we may need you to act as second footman until a new one can be come by.”

“That’s no problem at all, Mr. Samson,” Grantaire said with a smile. He didn’t mind helping out his first day, and anything was better than living on the streets.

“Thank you,” he said, folding his newspaper and beckoning Grantaire up the stairs. “I’ll take you to meet His Lordship then.”

Upstairs, Samson had Grantaire wait in the great hall while he went into the morning room. “The new valet, my lady.” Grantaire heard him say, his voice muffled through the wood. A moment later he was back again, directing Grantaire through the door.

Lady Enjolras sat on a low couch in a black dress with a dark green bodice. She must have been about fifty, but she had a thin delicate face lined with curls that was still quite lovely. She smiled a little stiffly when she saw him. “Your reference please,” she said, holding out her hand for them. Grantaire passed over his letter and shifted nervously as she read it. “I see that you worked for the Montparnasses for five years?”

“That’s right, my lady. I started out as a hallboy, then a footman, and finally a valet after their other one left.”

“And why did you leave their service?”

“They were moving to India, my lady.”

“And?” she asked, not unkindly.

“And I didn’t fancy the weather, my lady,” he said.

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile, and was pleased that he hadn’t told her the truth, that young Lord Montparnasse was nothing but trouble and that Grantaire had thought he’d better get out before the police got in.

“Well, everything seems in order,” she said, “of course we’ll have to see if Lord Enjolras is pleased with you. I don’t know what’s keeping him.” She broke off as another door started to open. “Ah, here he is now.”

An angel walked into the room, a man who looked to be no more than eighteen and who could have been a Greek statue who some god breathed into life. He had curling blond hair, just slightly too long to be proper and his face was somewhat flushed as though he had just been outside in a brisk wind. The only thing that belied his status as Greek god was the fact that he was sifting through a pile of letters as he walked. It took every ounce of Grantaire’s training not to gape. He had expected Lord Enjolras to be an older, graying man with a dour expression not this vision of loveliness.

Lady Enjolras cleared her throat. “Julian?”

“Yes, Good morning, mother,” he said, not looking up from his letters.

“Julian. Your new valet has arrived,” she said sternly.

He looked up and saw Grantaire standing by the door. His face broke into a smile and he walked forward so that he was standing directly in front of him. “Oh, good. What’s your name?”

Grantaire had the vague notion that Enjolras’ eyes were the precise color of a storming sea before Samson cleared his throat behind him, and he realized that he still hadn’t answered the question. “G-Grantaire, Your Lordship,” he said.

“Great. I’ll be changing for dinner then. I’m sure Samson will show you where my room is.” He sat down next to his mother and returned his attention to his letters. Grantaire didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but did find that he could breathe more easily.

“You may go, Grantaire,” Lady Enjolras said, and Grantaire reluctantly left the room.

“That’s Enjolras?” he whispered to Samson when they were back in the corridor.

Samson frowned. “ _Lord_ Enjolras, Grantaire, and yes, that was His Lordship.”

“But he’s so—“

“It is not up to you to determine what Lord Enjolras is. It is up to you to serve him. Now, please go and put your things in your room and then I have some silver for you to polish.”

When Grantaire had put his bag into his closet of a room, he returned to the servant’s hall where Samson had laid out a table full of silver for him to polish. Eponine, who was on her knees scrubbing the floor, grinned at him. “First day and already demoted to footman, huh?”

“Temporarily,” he said, sitting down and pulling an elaborate silver candlestick towards him. “His Lordship he’s—“ He trailed off, rubbing polish into the silver and trying to think of a word to describe just what Enjolras was.

Eponine beat him to it. “Young isn’t he?” She moved one of the chairs to clean under it and lowered her voice. “He’s only twenty-one. Been at school till recently, but His Lordship, young Lord Enjolras’ father up and died and Lord Enjolras had to do his duty by his mother and come back to manage the estate. Move over.” Grantaire shifted his chair and she dipped her cloth in the bucket and started on the floor again. “Rumor has it though that he didn’t want to come back. He was involved with some sort of student organization planning on fixing it for the lower class or something.” She sighed and sat back on her knees. “Like that’ll ever happen.”

Her eyes darkened for a moment, but then she smiled again and continued her scrubbing. “Anyway, he brought a few of them to stay for a week after he came home. I thought old Samson was going to go crazy. There was one, wouldn’t let us call him sir or lord or anything. Flat out refused to answer if we did. He came in when I was lighting the fire and when I apologized for letting him see me, he wouldn’t hear of it. Said the only thing I should apologize for was calling him sir. Told me to call him Courfeyrac just like his friends did.” She twisted her rag over the bucket and laughed. “Crazy, the lot of them.”

Another maid came in and sat at the table, throwing her legs up on another chair. She was pretty and fair, and she smiled a twisted mischievous smile at Grantaire. “You must be the new valet.” She pulled a pin cushion from her apron pocket and began to stitch a cloth rose back onto one of Lady Enjolras’ hats. “You used to work for the Montparnasse’s right?”

Eponine knocked over her bucket and ran to get a mop.

“Yes, I worked for the family for five years.”

“Why’d’you leave then?” she asked.

Eponine paused her mopping and looked at him curiously.

“Well…” The bell rang from Enjolras’ room. “That story will have to wait for later. That will be His Lordship wanting dressing.”

“Ooh,” Irma cooed swinging her feet down. “I’d like to trade you for that job.”

“You’d better not let Mr. Samson hear you talking like that,” Eponine said.

“What? He’s pretty. Not like you Grantaire.” She dropped her sewing. “Oh, no. I’m sorry Grantaire. Mrs. Byrd always says I have a wicked tongue, but I just talk without thinking. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Grantaire forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it.”

Upstairs, Enjolras moved reluctantly from the desk in the corner of his room to the mirror when Grantaire came in. “Will you remind me after dinner that I have a letter to send?”

“Yes, my lord.” Grantaire laid out his dinner jacket while Enjolras took off his tie.

“It really does waste time all this changing and dining.” Enjolras fumbled with his cufflinks and Grantaire steadied his arms and removed them for him. “I never had a valet at university, and I did just fine.” He looked up at Grantaire again. “Not that you have to worry about your job. I don’t approve of the whole thing all this ‘my lord-ing’ when you’re just as good as I am and there are people starving in the streets. Still, one cannot deny a man work for the sake of principle.”

Grantaire smiled and helped Enjolras into his dinner jacket.

“You probably think I’m horribly pretentious.”

“No, my lord.” Grantaire brushed some dust off Enjolras’ shoulder.

“I’ll tell you a secret. I didn’t even come up with that on my own. When father died, I was hell-bent on coming back here and telling Mother that if I had to run the place, I’d run it my way. Sans valet as it were and a lot of other staff too. But my friend Combeferre talked me down. He’s right. He’s always right.”

“I’m so sorry, my lord.”

Enjolras looked up from buttoning his sleeves. “For what?”

“Your father’s passing, my lord.”

“Oh,” Enjolras straightened his collar in the mirror. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

“My lord?”

“Oh, that’s not to say I wasn’t grateful or that I don’t regret his death. I do.” The hard marble set to his face loosened a bit. “Mother was a mess for weeks afterwards. It’s just that I barely knew him. He was away when I was very young, and when I was older I went away to boarding school and then to university. I know Samson better than I knew Father.” He glanced at the door. “No gong yet. What about you, Grantaire? What did your father do?”

“My father?” Grantaire folded Enjolras’ day clothes over his arm. “He was a tailor, my Lord.”

“A tailor.” Enjolras sat on the bed, clearly, Grantaire observed, without a thought for the wrinkles Grantaire had just smoothed out of his jacket. “And didn’t you want to be a tailor too?”

None of the Montparnasses had ever asked about what Grantaire wanted. Well, young Mr. Montparnasse might have, but only if he wanted something particularly vicious in return. “My father took up the boy next door as an apprentice. He didn’t want me.” Grantaire’s fist tightened on the shirt he had slung over his arm, and he mentally kicked himself. That would have to be ironed out before morning.

“Why didn’t he want you? Surely it would be better to have his son as successor.”

“You would think so, my Lord. And I fancied the job for a while. I was even good at parts of it. I could tell quality silk from inferior with my eyes closed, but well there’s a lot of measuring and calculating in tailoring isn’t there? And I could never get the hang of it. All those strings of numbers meant nothing to me. My father detested me because I was terrible at mathematics.” He realized suddenly that he had balled the shirt into his fist and that Enjolras’ eyes were looking at him with a softness unwarranted towards a valet. He forced a laugh. “It’s ridiculous isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.” Enjolras’ voice was so soft that Grantaire barely heard him. He opened his mouth as though he would say something more, but the dinner gong rang.

Released, Grantaire fled to the servants’ hall, and even as Mrs. Byrd handed him a silver tureen, he couldn’t dispel the image of Enjolras sitting on his bed and looking at him like he cared.


	2. Settling In

In the following few weeks Grantaire found his niche among the downstairs staff. Months passed with no sight of a new footman, and his cheerful acceptance of the extra work endeared him to the housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, and to Mrs. Byrd, who usually had some pie or biscuits put aside for him at the end of the day. Even Samson grudgingly smiled at him every once in a while.

With Irma he formed a ready friendship. He enjoyed listening to her incessant chatter and the freedom with which she talked about Enjolras. 

“They say he’s never been with a woman before,” she whispered to him one night in the servant’s hall, while setting up her sewing supplies to fix a tear in one of her ladyship’s dresses. “I’d like to teach him a thing or two.”

“Have anything to teach me?” Grantaire had asked, picking her up from where she stood by the table and twirling her around. Eponine, sitting for once in her day with a cup of tea had rolled her eyes, but Irma had shrieked with laughter until Mrs. Smith came in and told them to behave with a little more decency. 

Grantaire enjoyed their unforced, friendly flirtations. They both knew that neither was interested and enjoyed the game.

Eponine, on the other hand, was a mystery. Once, when they had been laughing over something Samson had said, Grantaire had tried to pick her up and spin her around like he did with Irma, and she’d had him backwards with his hand twisted behind his back before he could blink. And when one of the delivery men harassed her one too many times, Grantaire, passing by, had heard her threaten him in ways he doubted she picked up in a penny dreadful. 

Still, he had taken a liking to him, always sitting in with him when he polished the silver or fixed Enjolras’ coats, and he enjoyed her company. She told him stories about Enjolras and his friends. “Do you know, I come in one morning to light the fire and his friend had moved the bed around? Said,” she paused to put on a posh accent, “it wasn’t facing in a healthy direction.” She laughed and returned to her normal voice. “What’ll they come up with next? He did help Irma through that bad flu though, so he’s not all crazy.” 

And stories about her own family, mostly her brother Gavroche, “thinks he’s set up to be a little ruler of the slums. Once I found him, miles away from home, setting up a little house for himself in a statue. I wish mum’d pay him more mind, but they don’t care about nobody but themselves. But then again…Never you mind…” She always trailed off when speaking about her parents.

So downstairs, life had settled into an easy routine. Upstairs, however Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he’d fallen into heaven or hell. 

Lady Enjolras was kind, but distant, and he saw little of her other than at meals. But Enjolras was something entirely new. He tended to bounce between being withdrawn and extremely sociable with Grantaire. But there was nothing cold in his withdrawn behavior, simply distracted. He worried Grantaire on days when he came to dress him for breakfast, only to find him still writing at his desk, his curls mussed, his eyes bagged, his hands stained with ink, and yet still, inconceivably, torturously, beautiful. But these moods passed quickly, and usually the trouble was more that he looked at Grantaire through the mirror with too-understanding eyes. He tended to speak to Grantaire the way he would to anyone else, asking him how his day was, reading him bits of his papers and letters that he found funny or outrageous or offensive, and never asking it that condescending way that some rich people had whether or not Grantaire understood. 

But Grantaire’s biggest problem was that this morning, while buttoning Enjolras into his shirt, Enjolras, in one of his distracted moods, had rubbed his eye and left a long stain of ink on his nose, and Grantaire realized suddenly that he had fallen in love. He could no longer justify it as just lust. Not when at the same time he had the uncontrollable urges to laugh at Enjolras’ face and tease him all the way down to the breakfast table and to take him into the bath and scrub the bold mark from that precious skin himself. Not when just Enjolras’ heat soaking through his shirt to Grantaire’s trembling fingertips was like the sun trying to pull him in. Not when he knew he’d never leave this house, not for a thousand dollars, not to work for the king, if it meant he would never again see Enjolras morning-addled and mussed.

He must have been standing with his hands on Enjolras’ buttons for quite some time, because usually Enjolras noticed nothing in this mood, but now he slowly circled Grantaire’s wrist with his hand. “Grantaire?” He peered at him, and Grantaire looked down to avoid the dark eyes that seemed to know too much. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, my lord.” Grantaire gently removed his hand from Enjolras’ grip and turned to get his jacket, using the chair to steady himself for a moment and will his face back to its normal hue before turning back. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord.” He held out the jacket and waited for Enjolras to turn, which he did, keeping his eyes on Grantaire’s in the mirror. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well at all. I was just lost in thought.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed and for a moment Grantaire thought he didn’t believe him, but he only said, “You must take care of yourself,” and for once Grantaire was grateful for the lack of questions.

Once Enjolras was dressed, Grantaire excused himself, saying that Samson would be needing his help with the breakfast and rushed down the servant’s stairs into the kitchen.

“What’s happened to you?” Eponine demanded as soon as he rounded the corner. She was dusted in flour and scraping the eggs into a tureen. “You look like the cat who ate the canary and no mistake.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, taking the dish from her. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll bet I know what it is, though,” she murmured, smiling at him from beneath her cap.

He was about to ask her what she meant, but Mrs. Byrd looked up from the oven. “Will you two stop your chatting and get those eggs up to the dining room before they hatch and fly themselves there on their own?” She asked, shooing him up the stairs with her dishcloth.

Upstairs, Samson shot him a look as though he too knew what was going on, although Grantaire thought he was probably imagining it. He had only just placed the eggs down when Lady Enjolras came through. Eponine had told him that she had started eating in the dining room again after her husband died and Enjolras moved home, saying that she felt lonely imagining him alone in the dining room and that one of the footmen had overheard her telling Enjolras’ friend Combeferre that she feared he’d forget to eat at all if she wasn’t there to remind him. 

She helped herself sparingly to the food and sat at the end of the table, taking the letters from Samson just as Enjolras walked around the corner, looking noticeably more alert and the smudge gone from his nose. He said good morning to Samson and looked Grantaire up and down, as though assessing whether or not he was truly alright, before picking up a plate. 

“The Pontmercys are having a wedding,” she said, reading from a letter while Enjolras scooped eggs onto his plate. “You remember that nice boy, Marius who you shouted at during dinner.”

Enjolras smiled a little mischievously with his back turned to his mother, and Grantaire felt another kick to the stomach. “I didn’t shout at him, Mother. Combeferre and I just educated him. He had been very misinformed.”

“Yes, well Combeferre I can forgive, being a guest.”

Enjolras laughed, the low gentle chuckle he only used when he was talking to his mother or Grantaire in his room. “I’m sure you can.” 

Enjolras had told Grantaire weeks ago that his mother had a soft spot for Combeferre because she thought he kept him out of trouble. “And I suppose he does really,” he had said, “at least he keeps me on track, though not always in ways she’d approve.”

“Well,” Lady Enjolras said now, “he’s marrying that pretty Fauchelevent girl.”

“Cosette,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire felt a ridiculous twinge of envy at how quickly he had recalled the name.

“Yes, you danced with her and yet…” Lady Enjolras lifted an eyebrow at her son, as he settled across from her at the table.

“And yet she was very sweet and not at all my type, and even if she was, she was so obviously in love with Pontmercy.”

“Still,” Lady Enjolras said with a delicate sigh, flicking open the second letter, “I suppose it is not best to dwell.” She glanced down, and Grantaire moved to fill Enjolras’ water glass. “Oh. We’ve had a letter from the Montparnasses.”

Grantaire fumbled with his pitcher, narrowly avoiding spilling the contents into Enjolras’ lap. Lady Enjolras didn’t look up from her letter, but Enjolras’ concerned eyes darted to his. Grantaire shook his head and smiled before filling Enjolras’ glass and stepping back.

“They say that we met at a party two Christmases ago. I don’t remember, but you know how I am. And that they will be coming to town next week and staying in the inn. They want to know if they might drop in to renew our acquaintance. Of course we must ask them to stay.” 

Grantaire truly had not thought his day could get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after two-ish years I guess I'm continuing this. Sorry about that, if anyone's still reading this story. Life got in the way in a big way, but now I feel like coming back to it. It's been stirring around in my head this whole time, I just haven't been in a place to sit down and write it out until now. I will try to be better about updating now. As always any grammar mistakes or glaring historical inaccuracies are entirely my fault. Thank you for reading!


	3. Confusion

Grantaire stepped back into his place, trying to ignore Samson’s sharp glare. He was distantly aware that Enjolras and his mother were continuing their conversation, but he was focused on the idea that Montparnasse was coming and that could only mean trouble. Had Montparnasse said something about the family when he was valeting for him? He remembered nothing about that, although the memory of his time in Montparnasse’s service was coated in shame, and he had, in the past few months, tried to forget as much of it as possible.

“Grantaire?” The concern in Enjolras’ voice pierced through his haze, and he looked up to find Lady Enjolras looking at him with bemusement, and Samson looking at him as though he had started smashing the dining room to pieces.

“I’m terribly sorry, My Lord.”

“I’m afraid Grantaire hasn’t been at all well,” Enjolras said. “Really it might be better if you just went to bed. Samson can manage things. Can’t you?”

“Of course, your lordship,” Samson said, but he still looked as though Grantaire had committed a capital offence.

“It’s like I told you before, My Lord, just a little lack of sleep. I’m sorry to have concerned you.”

Enjolras looked to his mother, as though for support.

“Of course you must take care of yourself, Grantaire,” she said lightly, “but if you really insist that you are fine…”

“I do, my lady.”

“Very well then.” She smoothed her napkin in her lap, pointedly ignoring Enjolras’ scowl. “I had asked you whether I was right in remembering that you had previously worked for the Montparnasses.”

“Yes, my lady.” Grantaire sincerely hoped that she would not ask for information on their character. He didn’t know of any political way to denounce her future guests in her dining room, and he had no desire to lie for Montparnasse. Not again.

“They write that they have recently taken on a young ward, who they have just brought out for her first season.” She glanced significantly at Enjolras, who came dangerously close to rolling his eyes. “This seems charitable and kind on their part. I wondered what you know of her and how she is getting along with them.”

“I don’t—They had no ward when I was there, my lady.” Charitable and kind were not words Grantaire would use to describe Montparnasse and he had never been able to tell whether his father and mother hadn’t cared to stop his activities or were too afraid of their son to try. He could see no reason for them to take on a ward, especially with their estate hemorrhaging money for the past six years. “Perhaps they took her on after I left.”

“Thank you.” Lady Enjolras folded the letter and turned back to her son. “I think some house guests will brighten up things around here, don’t you?”

Enjolras put down his fork, and an edge of amusement crept into his tone when he spoke. “Subtlety is not your strong suit, Mother.”

“No?” Lady Enjolras asked. “I don’t know what you mean. Still, it has been very lonely here. There’s not much company for an older woman on a country estate, whose only son locks himself up with his books and letters all day long.” 

Enjolras held her gaze and for a moment, their fine boned features made them look like two marble statues in the sunlight, one forlorn, the other steely, then Lady Enjolras broke into a wide grin, and Enjolras laughed out loud. “As I said. And Grandmother was much better at guilt than you are.”

“I know, Julian, but there is truth to it. I have had little to do since your father died, and were that not the case it would be rude to not invite them.”

“It’s your house, Mother.” Enjolras cut into a sausage. “I know it’s mine technically, but I did say I’d give you the running of it until I was married, and as you so often like to point out, I am not. Invite who you want. I’m certain the Montparnasses will be wonderful houseguests.” His eyes flicked for a moment to Grantaire, as though checking his reaction.

“I’m glad that’s settled.” 

Lady Enjolras went back to her letters, while Enjolras opened the newspaper and began circling passages with a pencil stub. Grantaire refilled their glasses and tried to connect the pieces in his head: Montparnasse, the ward, and Enjolras. But before he could get too far his brain would stick on Enjolras, being annoyingly distracting as he frowned beautifully at his paper, poking holes through it with the force of his scribbling, and stirring his eggs with his fork instead of eating them.

When their breakfast was over, Grantaire carried the dishes down to Eponine, who was already washing the pots in the sink with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

“You look even worse than you did before,” she said, when he placed a stack of plates by her. “Help me dry and tell me what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” 

Eponine tossed the dish towel at his face. “I said help me dry.” She plunged her hands back into the soapy water. “I’d like to actually get to eat our breakfast this morning, and I still have the tea to make and all.” She smiled as Grantaire picked up the rag and started to dry a copper pot. “And don’t think I don’t know you’re hiding something neither. My brother used to think he could hide when he was bothered too, but I’d always get it out of him.”

“I’m just surprised.” Grantaire finished the pot and moved on to the delicate glassware. “The family I used to work for is coming to visit Her Ladyship.”

“They’re coming here? Why?” Eponine stopped washing and stared at him. “What do they want with her?”

“I don’t know.”

Eponine turned back to the sink and scrubbed roughly at a char mark on one of the pans. “When are they coming, Grantaire?”

“In a few weeks, I think.” His stomach knotted at the thought.

“Why did you leave their service?” Her voice was tight and barely audible above the splashing water. “What happened?”

“They were moving to India.” Montparnasse had bullied his parents into it. Grantaire wasn’t really sure why, other than that it was a whole new country of people to exploit.

Eponine handed him a plate without looking at him. “And yet…”

“And yet, they’re apparently still here.” 

Eponine looked as though she wanted to ask more questions, but she was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Byrd.

“Are you not done with those dishes yet?” the cook asked, “Grantaire, go sit down. I’ve saved you something good for breakfast. You look worn out.”

“And what about me?” Eponine asked.

“Alright, you too.” Mrs. Byrd waited until Eponine had turned around to dry her hands to smile fondly at her. “But it’s right back to the dishes after we eat, and you’ll have more to do then.”

Eponine barely spoke to him during breakfast, turning to talk instead to Irma, who she usually ignored. Grantaire hardly noticed though. He was wondering what would have enticed Montparnasse to change his mind. He could remember few times that that had ever happened and never for a reason that meant anything good for anyone else.

After breakfast he checked the glasses from breakfast back in with Samson, trying not to get annoyed at how thoroughly Samson looked them over for chips before putting them away. He helped Mrs. Byrd tidy the kitchen, but was too distracted to have much patience for her stories, so she looked somewhat concerned and affronted even as she handed him an extra biscuit and patted him on the cheek.

It was Albert’s turn to lay the table for luncheon, so after tea Grantaire sat down in the servant’s hall to black Enjolras’ riding boots. The smooth leather was soft and supple beneath his hands, and he found comfort in the cleansing scuff of the brush, removing the mud and grass still trapped around the sole. He almost didn’t notice Eponine peeking around the corner and coming to sit beside him.

“You really don’t know why they’re coming back, huh?” Her cap was askew, and she was pinning her hair back under it, but she didn’t take her eyes off his face.

Grantaire thumped the boots onto the table. “No. I really don’t. Why’re you so interested?”

Eponine studied his face for a few seconds before smiling and looking away. “Alright, grumpy. Can’t I be interested in the life of the only person here I can stand.”

“Funny.” Grantaire picked up Enjolras’ boots again. “There’s no one in this room I can stand.”

“Shut it you.” Eponine smoothed her dress. “Or I’ll start asking more questions. Like why you were already out of sorts when you left His Lordship’s room this morning.”

“Don’t you have work to do? This room was lovely and silent a moment ago.”

Eponine stood. “Alright, I’ll leave you to your work and your secrets.” She stopped by the door. “You will tell me if you hear anything else about them coming, right? Only I like to know what I’m getting into with extra work and all.”

“Sure thing, nosy.” Grantaire waved to her with the brush as she walked away.

It would all be fine. He took a rag and rubbed circles of polish into the left boot. It smelled of leather and mud and the mix of ink, linen, and crushed leaves he always associated with Enjolras. He could handle Montparnasse. He had for five years after all. He could handle a week or two, and there was a limit to the damage he could do here. He didn’t like crimes that left a trail after all, and Grantaire could do everything in his power to make sure there was a trail leading right to him. 

When it came time to dress Enjolras for dinner, Grantaire climbed the back staircase almost too slowly. Eponine, coming down the stairs with a coal scuttle, winked at him as she passed, and Grantaire filed that away in his mind as something to worry about later.

Enjolras was at his desk, scratching out a letter and looked up when Grantaire quietly closed the door behind him, a confused frown slowly melting into a smile. “Is it that time already?” He glanced at the window, where shadows were spreading in the dying sun. “I suppose it’s best not to keep mother waiting.”

“Half past six, my Lord.” The title was a blessing. Every time it reminded Grantaire of who he was and who Enjolras was. “You didn’t ring, but I thought—“

“Yes, of course. I was writing letters and lost track of time.” He stood reluctantly and walked in front of the mirror, already undoing his cufflinks.

“Who were you writing, My Lord?” Grantaire asked as he helped Enjolras off with his jacket. With anyone else the question would have been impertinent, but he had learned that   
Enjolras liked it when he asked questions, when he took an interest.

“A few friends of mine.” He was still struggling with the cufflinks on his right wrist. The pearl ones that he wore nearly every day because his mother had given them to him had a tricky clasp. “I thought, and Mother agreed, that since the term is ending at the same time as the Montparnasses are coming, I might as well have them over also. Make a party of it. Mother has missed her parties, even if she’s not a fan of most of my friends.”

Grantaire stilled Enjolras’ fingers over his wrist and undid the cufflink for him.

“Ah,” Enjolras, said, sounding slightly embarrassed, “I suppose you have more experience than I do.”

“And you say you don’t need a valet, My Lord.” Grantaire grinned and looked up, only to find that he was closer to Enjolras than he had thought, and Enjolras was slightly flushed in the half-light, his eyes amused and warm, his warm breaths sweet and near.

Grantaire stepped back and put the cufflinks carefully into their box. “I wondered if I might talk to you about that, My Lord.”

“Hmm?” Behind him Enjolras seemed distracted, and Grantaire wondered if his mind was still in his letters. “About what?”

“I don’t wish to say anything out of place.”

“You must abandon the idea that you have a place, Grantaire.” Enjolras’ focus was back. “You can say anything to me, the same way that anyone else could.”

Grantaire wished that were true. “It’s only that I don’t wish to speak ill of my past employers, but I’m concerned about the Montparnasses visit.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that if you are going to welcome them into your home, My Lord, I worry that they might—The younger Lord Montparnasse is—“ 

Below the gong sounded, and Enjolras started and quickly shrugged on his evening jacket without Grantaire’s assistance. “They’re only staying for a week, Grantaire. Mother thought you might be worried about them challenging your reference. Don’t worry. Nothing they can say could change my mind about you.” He patted Grantaire on the shoulder and left for the dining room.

Grantaire had a warm swell of pride at Enjolras’ loyalty, but he pondered how to broach the topic again. The few times that he tried for the next few weeks, Enjolras was distracted with writing or looked at him so trustingly, asking him to listen to a fragment of a speech or letter, that Grantaire didn’t have the heart to disturb the fragile tranquility of their interactions. 

And so he let the weeks slip away, and finally on the day that Enjolras’ friends were to arrive, the doorbell rang upstairs, and Samson indicated over his newspaper that it was Grantaire’s turn to answer it. 

He climbed the stairs and swung open the door, ready for a well-dressed, scholar like Enjolras, but looked instead into the sun-browned and smiling face of a young gardener with a wool cap pulled over his eyes and mud on his boots. 

Before Grantaire could object, the man had stepped inside and put down a battered case on the landing. “You must be new. Grantaire, right?” He asked, peering further into the house. “Where’s Samson?”

“Sir, I think you’ll find you’re at the wrong door,” Grantaire said, trying his best to summon the pomposity he thought Samson would have used. “If you go around back I’ll make sure—“ 

The man was laughing. Clearly Grantaire didn’t have Samson’s severity down yet.

“I’m sorry it’s just no one warned you. I swear this is Samson’s idea of a practical joke. Every yea—“

He was cut off by Enjolras coming down the stairs. “Feuilly!” Enjolras shouted, and to Grantaire’s shock ran forward and hugged the man. 

Grantaire winced when Enjolras pulled away with a new mud stain on his trousers. He would have to get that out later.

“What’re you doing on the landing?” Enjolras was speaking freely and easily, the lines of worry that Grantaire had become accustomed to seeing gone from his face.

“Poor Grantaire didn’t know what to make of me,” Feuilly said. “I’m afraid no one warned him.”

“Grantaire, Feuilly is one of my oldest, dearest friends,” Enjolras said, all smiles, “even if no one really approves.”

Lady Enjolras opened the morning room door and looked out. “What’s all this shouting about?” Her eyes fell on the three in the doorway. “I see. Hello, Mr. Feuilly. I hope you are well.” She spoke more stiffly than usual. “I hope you won’t think me rude, but I have several letters to write, so I’ll excuse myself now.” She closed the door.

Enjolras smiled and patted Feuilly on the shoulder. “You’re growing on her. Don’t worry we’ve already had our yearly row about you, so it’s all settled. Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

Grantaire moved to pick up the case, but Feuilly stopped him with a friendly grin. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to wait on me too. We’ll be fine. It was nice to meet you.” He followed Enjolras up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who is reading and everyone who commented and left kudos. You seriously made my day! I'm sorry if this chapter is terrible. It's a lot of exposition to set up for Montparnasse's arrival next chapter.


	4. Les Amis

The rest of Enjolras’ friends showed up together while Grantaire was downstairs with Eponine polishing the silver for dinner. They snuck up together to peek at them from the servant’s staircase. They were more what he had expected, wealthy looking and educated, although they too treated Feuilly like he was one of them, passing him around and hugging him. 

And they were loud. Grantaire fleetingly thought that he and Eponine could have stayed in the kitchen and still eavesdropped with all of them talking at once, each trying to dominate Enjolras or Feuilly’s attention. One of them, with hair a little too long to be in style and a bright, patterned waistcoat that looked like it had belonged to his grandfather was pulling small volumes out of his bag and stacking them in Feuilly’s arms, while at the same time the big, scary looking one was telling a story about a fight on the train that sounded half made up and half heroic.

A separate group had formed around Enjolras, and the bald one was mid-story. “and Joly wouldn’t even let me take my own bag. He made me pack mine with his,” he said, over the others’ laughter.

“Only because you lost yours the last two times,” his small friend said over Enjolras’ shoulder as he hugged him.

Grantaire knew immediately which one was Combeferre, even without Eponine’s whispering their names to him. He was tall and dark and almost professorial in a warm way, and Enjolras hugged him the longest out of all of them. 

Lady Enjolras stood in the corner by the morning room, looking as though she would like to be disapproving about their rowdiness, but couldn’t help smiling as her eyes tracked her son’s bright countenance around the room. Grantaire couldn’t blame her. With his friends around, the passion that seemed to drive Enjolras crazy sometimes was turned into something productive and joyful. 

Enjolras put an arm around Combeferre and around another smiling young man who Eponine identified as Courfeyrac and began discussing something in a serious, low tone. A good-natured groan went up from the little group.

Combeferre laughed. “Maybe we can get settled first before we start talking business.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Lady Enjolras moved from her corner at last, practically beaming at Combeferre. “I haven’t even offered you tea yet, and you’ve all travelled so far. Samson?”

Samson nodded and glanced towards the servant’s staircase, so Grantaire hurriedly closed the door.

“Need help with the tea, My Lady?” he asked, offering his arm to Eponine.

“Hmm.” She side stepped his arm and continued down the stairs in front of him. “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for you to get out of carrying all those bags upstairs.”

“Damn.” He followed her down. “So those’re Enjolras’ friends, huh?”

“Quite the group, right? I like them though. They’ll probably come down later. They usually do.”

“How does that work? All those students and then Feuilly,” Grantaire asked, pressing himself against the wall, so that Lady Enjolras’ lady’s maid could squeeze by in the narrow space. 

Eponine shrugged. “I know it seems strange, but you know His Lordship. They’re all like that. They really don’t care if you’re a servant or the king, and they don’t see why anyone else does either. From what I’ve heard Feuilly’s the gardener at their school. You should have heard the rows they used to have about it when Lord Enjolras, our Enjolras’   
father that is, was still alive.”

“Well it certainly surprised me. I was still trying to figure out how to get him to go ‘round back, and he’s just calmly shaking my hand and saying ‘you must be Grantaire.’” He laughed. “I guess he had the jump on me.”

Eponine stopped suddenly, and Grantaire walked into her back. 

“What did you say he said?” She asked.

“You must be Grantaire?” Grantaire poked her gently in the back. “You want to get moving? I’m trying to avoid Samson, remember?”

She slowly continued down the stairs. “You must be Grantaire,” she repeated sounding gleeful. “You must be Grantaire.”

“You’re starting to worry me. Should I have Mrs. Byrd send for the doctor?”

“Sometimes you are so stupid, I can’t even stand it,” she said, but Grantaire could hear the smile in her voice. “How d’you think he knew your name? Psychic abilities? Or maybe His Lordship’s been writing about you in his letters.”

“What?” Grantaire felt heat rising to his face. “People like that don’t write letters about their valets.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Eponine swung off the staircase and into the kitchen. “Come on. You can help me with the tea until Samson comes calling.”

Samson came down a minute later and sent Grantaire up to help Albert and Irma carry the bags up and to attend the rest of his chores for the day. By the time upstairs dinner was ready, Grantaire’s back ached, but he also had a fleeting sense of contentment. It was the last night before Montparnasse would arrive, and no one could control what could happen then, but for now he could enjoy the sense of vitality that Enjolras’ friends brought to the house. 

It helped that Enjolras was radiating joy while he helped him into his evening clothes. He decided not to examine too closely the fact that Enjolras happy made his chest warm too easily. 

Dinner was a rowdy affair. Grantaire, used to the relative quiet of Enjolras’ dinners with his mother, was almost taken aback to see the full dining room, loud and happy. Mrs. Byrd had him, Albert, and Eponine running up and down the stairs with dishes. 

“Those boys can eat. Bless them,” she said, pushing a soup tureen into Grantaire’s arms with one hand and a platter of vegetables into Albert’s with another. 

Lady Enjolras sat beside Combeferre and looked on quietly, occasionally responding to a question or delicately changing the topic of conversation, but mostly just watching with a faint smile. Grantaire had taken to watching her during meals, because it was much better than the gnawing temptation to drink in the sight of Enjolras. He could see him in her though, especially today as she tracked her son’s conversation, Grantaire could see Enjolras’ passion and joy reflected in her eyes, which looked so much like his.  
Usually after dinner Enjolras would go through with his mother immediately. There was little point in sitting in the dining room alone, but today when Lady Enjolras stood to go into the drawing room, Enjolras remained behind with his friends. 

Samson left to attend to Lady Enjolras and with a jerk of his head indicated that Grantaire should stay behind to wait on the students. 

The one called Joly lit up a cigar the minute Lady Enjolras left the room, and the big one, who Eponine had said was named Bahorel, leaned across the table and plucked it out of his mouth again.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know?” he said, popping it into his mouth and grinning around it, “I’m just doing you a favor.”

This led to a slight scuffle, which ended in Bahorel doubled over with laughter, Joly, also laughing, while trying to smoke a broken cigar, and Bossuet seemingly unfazed by the bruise blossoming across his cheek bone. 

“Is this what I’ve been missing?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre went to the sideboard to pour sherry for everyone. “Essentially. Yes. But we’ve missed having you around for it.” He passed a sherry to Courfeyrac, who was deep in conversation and sat down. 

The conversation hummed for a while, with everyone drinking or smoking and talking over each other. Grantaire stood in the corner keeping an eye on the level of sherry. He was just trying to decide if he should risk the wrath of Samson by asking for the key to the drink’s cupboard for more when Courfeyrac looked up from the huddle.

“Hey, Grantaire, you’re still here,” he called. Apparently he knew his name as well. “Why don’t you come join us?”

A murmur of assent went around the table, and Feuilly even moved over and patted the seat between him and Courfeyrac.

Eponine hadn’t been lying when she had said they didn’t play by the rules. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, sir,” Grantaire said. 

Courfeyrac made a face. “Come on. Enjolras’ mother isn’t here. It’s not like this is the most classic gathering anyway.”

Grantaire glanced at the door. He could imagine what Samson would say if he came through to find him sitting at the table with Enjolras’ guests.

“You don’t have to,” Combeferre said, with his hand resting lightly on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Please don’t feel pressure to do something you’re not comfortable with. But we’d like to have you in our conversation if that is something you would also enjoy.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras.

“Combeferre’s right,” Enjolras said, “But I would really like it if you did join us.”

Grantaire’s body acted for him, sitting down on the edge of the seat before his mind could even fully catch up. He would really need to work on how willing he was to do things for Enjolras when asked, but for now the smile he received was enough reward for him to not focus too hard on it.

“Excellent,” said the one named Jehan, smiling at him warmly. “I don’t suppose you can drink sherry while you’re working.”

Grantaire laughed. “Not if I’d like to keep my skin.”

“How about some water, then.” Joly got up, poured a glass from the sideboard, and handed it to him.

Grantaire took it hesitantly, feeling the room’s eyes on him. “Thank you, sir.”

“Joly.” He insisted, sitting next to Bossuet. 

Across the table Enjolras had returned to his conversation with Combeferre, apparently unconcerned with Grantaire’s presence at his table. Grantaire allowed his shoulders to relax a little.

“So, how did you end up here, Grantaire?” Bossuet asked. 

“Yeah.” There was a distinct smile in Joly’s voice. “Bad luck having to wait on Enjolras all day.”

Enjolras glanced over for a moment with a lenient smile.

“Does he still write all night and end up looking like a ghost the next morning?” Bossuet asked.

“Can he tie his own tie?” Bahorel piped in.

“I used to have to drag him out of bed in the morning for class,” Jehan said, running his finger lazily over the rim of his wine glass, “On a scale of one to ten how much of a pain is he to wake up?”

Grantaire decided to take a risk and tell the truth. “Yes, badly, and ten in that order.” He was relieved when they all grinned at him and Bahorel let out a whoop.

Grantaire avoided looking, but Enjolras chuckled gently at the end of the table. “I’ll admit that all of that is true. Grantaire has the patience of a saint.”

“That may be the first time that my name and saint have been said in the same sentence.” Grantaire felt a little giddy. He took a sip of his water.

Bahorel started pouring out more wine and Enjolras returned to his conversation. “Wow, you’ve gotten all this done without me?” he said, looking over a stack of papers   
Combeferre had produced from somewhere. 

Grantaire frowned in his direction. That was not Enjolras’ happy voice. That was the tone he used when he spoke about his father or when he ran out of ink and Grantaire couldn’t get to the store until the next day. 

Before Grantaire could worry too much though, Joly stole his attention back by slinging his arm around his shoulder. “Yeah, we’ve all heard a lot about you being a saint,” he said, pouring a glass of wine for Bossuet with his other arm. “But we still don’t know too much about you.”

So Grantaire gave them a truncated version of his life story, skirting anything in detail that had to do with Montparnasse. It turned out that he and Joly had grown up in the same town and that his father was the only tailor Joly’s father would use. They were trying to work out whether or not they had met as children when the conversation at the other end of the table became too difficult to ignore.

“Because a revolution is exactly what we need,” Enjolras was saying, his untouched glass of wine still sitting by his hand. “That is the only way to achieve change.”

Combeferre sighed in a way that suggested this was a conversation they had had before. “Enjolras…”

“Not a violent revolution. A cultural revolution.” Enjolras shuffled through Combeferre’s papers again. “The language here is great, but it’s not intense enough.”

“Yeah, but Enjolras when you talk that way it makes people nervous,” Feuilly said.

“And the only way to achieve that sort of complete change is by getting the people on board,” Combeferre added.

Enjolras rubbed circles into his temple the way he did when he was stressed. “But the people must be on board. They have no reason not to be.”

Courfeyrac leaned over and took some of the sheets from Enjolras. “I’m still not certain this is the best way to go about attracting the lower classes. If we assume change happens from the top then sure we can distribute these at campuses and in cities, but if we want change to come from below we need to appeal to the people. They need a reason to trust us.”

“What do you think, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, “If we want to create meaningful change how should we appeal to the people.”

Feuilly smiled at Grantaire encouragingly.

The problem was that the slighty giddy feeling was still with Grantaire, so he said, “You can’t,” and the mood at the table sobered almost immediately.  
Joly laughed half-heartedly as though he was hoping it might be a joke.

“You can’t force people who are working just to survive to do what you want when it could cost them or their children their lives. None of them are going to believe that their lives can change.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’ voice was flat.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. You can all sit here and discuss this because you have nothing to lose if it goes wrong, but people like Eponine, or the farmers who work your land, or the people working in the factories in the cities with your fancy boarding schools don’t have that luxury.” He looked at Feuilly. “How do you sit here and listen to this with a straight face?”

Feuilly shrugged. “You have a point about method, but I think change is still possible.”

“But it’s been this way forever. We’re just a few manners away from serfdom. Every generation thinks something’s going to change, but every one ends up exactly the same as the one before.”

Courfeyrac whistled. “Well on that cheerful note and before Enjolras loses it, maybe we should go check on his mother.”

There was a murmur of assent and Enjolras and his friends moved all their empty bottles to the sideboard and headed out the door leaving Grantaire still sitting at the table. Joly clapped him on the shoulder as he passed so that it didn’t seem like as much of a rebuff. 

Later, while Enjolras was getting ready for bed and Grantaire was laying out his shaving kit for the next day, Enjolras didn’t mention their conversation at the table. Instead he smiled at Grantaire and said, “I was glad you joined us. I hope you do for the rest of the time my friends are here.”

“That might be difficult with the Montparnasses here.” The familiar pit of dread settled again in Grantaire’s stomach. 

He slept poorly that night and woke with a start when Eponine hit his door with the flat of her hand in the morning.

“Must you be so loud?” he grumbled, half to himself as he rolled out of bed.

“Sorry, your worship,” Eponine called through the wood, “No time for breakfast in bed this morning.” 

“God, I hate you,” Grantaire mumbled, pulling on his trousers.

“I heard that,” Eponine shouted from down the hallway. 

By the time he got down to the kitchen Mrs. Byrd and Eponine were already hard at work. “There’s the pudding for tonight too,” Mrs. Byrd was saying, “and the Montparnasses haven’t given word of when they’ll arrive, so we might have four more for any meal, including breakfast, which, good lord, is very soon. Do you have the sausages? And where is that delivery man. I swear I’ll skin him alive if he’s late today.”

Eponine was cracking eggs and looking as though she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be frightened. 

Grantaire winked at her and backed out of the kitchen before Mrs. Byrd could see him.

When he got to Enjolras’ room to wake him, Combeferre was already there, sitting at Enjolras’ desk with his feet up and taking notes in a small notebook. Enjolras was lying in bed, rumpled and looking half asleep, but mid sketching some complex idea out for his friend. They both stopped when they saw Grantaire in the doorway.

“Grantaire.” Combeferre’s smile was warm. “Come in. We were just discussing what you said last night. Enjolras has strong opinions about it certainly...”  
Enjolras chuckled.

“But he has come around to admitting that there may be certain practical applications to being able to address them.” Combeferre gestured to a chair. “If you’d like to sit down, perhaps you can help us work out some of the finer points.”

“I’m not sure how good I’d be at that,” Grantaire said, “and I’m really just here to make sure Lord Enjolras is dressed in time for breakfast. I’m to remind you that the Montparnasses are coming today as well.”

Enjolras groaned. “Ah, yes. The terrible compromise. I suppose that’s terribly unhospitable of me.” He half rolled off the bed in what should have been a completely ungainly move, but was somehow entirely graceful. “Have I told you, Combeferre that mother is trying to marry you off again?”  
Combeferre didn’t look up from his notebook, although his mouth turned up at one side. “And how will she raise a dowry to marry off a bride as grumpy as you?”

“Very funny.” Enjolras opened the drawer of his bureau. “The Montparnasse’s ward is attending. Mother hasn’t even met her yet, but I can see the wedding bells in her eyes.”

“Is she so desperate to move to the dower house?” Combeferre asked.

“I think she fears that I am lonely and is desperate to see me happy. I don’t have the heart to tell her that would mean going back to school when she so clearly needs me here. And I don’t want her in the dower house. She’s never been good at being alone.” He glanced over his shoulder at Grantaire. “Well, she wouldn’t be alone. There would be a butler and a maid and maybe a cook, but she would see it that way.”

“So try not to fall madly in love with the ward then,” Combeferre crossed something out in the notebook. “Problem solved.” 

“It’ll be a matter of trying to be as polite as possible without seeming too interested or too rude. If I hurt their feelings, Mother will never forgive me.”

Enjolras seemed prepared to dress himself, so Grantaire excused himself and went downstairs to set up breakfast. The meal was far rowdier and longer than the usual with all of Enjolras’ friends, and afterwards Lady Enjolras went to have a lie down and Samson looked as though he would like one too. 

Once he had cleaned the dining table and taken care of the mountain of dishes with Albert, Grantaire evaded a frantic Mrs. Byrd and slipped instead into the scullery where Eponine was polishing the silver.

“Oh good. You can help.” She pushed a chair out with her foot. “Samson’s been in here three times saying it’s not good enough.”

Before he could sit, Irma passed the door on the way to the servant’s staircase. “Your old bosses are here, Grantaire.”

He and Eponine followed Irma up the stairs and cracked the door. Albert was busy piling luggage in the front hall and blocking the view, so the first person Grantaire saw was Montparnasse, greeting Lady Enjolras. Eponine, who had pressed herself up against him for a better view, stiffened.

Samson glanced toward the servants hall and Grantaire quickly let it swing closed. When he opened it again, Albert had removed two of the suitcases and was carrying them up the stairs, and Lady Enjolras was saying “lovely to see you again, Mrs. Montparnasse.”

But the tall woman whose shoulder she was grasping was not Montparnasse’s frail looking mother, nor was the small man by her side his father. 

“And how lovely to meet you, my dear,” Lady Enjolras said, holding her hand out. 

A young woman dressed soberly in brown came forward to take it. Her thin hair was gathered up low around a pale, thin face and her smile, while sweet, had a hungry edge.   
Eponine gripped Grantaire’s arm.

“What’s your name again? Something lovely and uncommon wasn’t it?”

The girl glanced at Montparnasse for a moment before answering. “Alzema.”

Eponine let go of his arm, reached past him and closed the door. “I’m going to kill them,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I suck and didn't write anything again for a long time because of real life. Sorry about that. Here's a really long chapter to make up for it? I am really going to try to update this more regularly, in case anyone is still reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm sorry if I've messed up anything historically or used any Americanisms. Any mistakes are one hundred percent my fault. The title is from William Morris' essay "The Beauty of Life."


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